


Fallacy of Composition

by LiberaMeLuminis



Series: It has to do with the logistics [1]
Category: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Genre: M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:38:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7351978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberaMeLuminis/pseuds/LiberaMeLuminis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you want to go on a road trip?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallacy of Composition

**Author's Note:**

> I feel bad for not getting out anything in between the lull of Hypnopompic chapters and my giant Soulmate oneshot, so here’s this thing. I guess it's the first fic I didn't set out to make over 4000 words long.

“Do you want to go on a road trip?”

Shinji throws Kaworu a decisive look – a frown on his lips, his eyebrows creased in confusion, mixed with befuddlement and a dash of internal agony – and once Kaworu is faced with the full force of that meaningful mien, an epiphany unfurls itself inside his mind, dropping down to the pits of his stomach with the weight of a dumbbell – _The answer is no_.

He notices how Shinji’s nose wrinkles, just a bit, and prepares his heart for the slow, tortuous stomp of defeat, and then watches, only slightly mesmerized, as Shinji’s mouth opens, as he says, with a whisper, “If I can stay in the motel all day.”

“Ah.” Kaworu leans back on the uncomfortable wooden chair – logs hacked to pieces, stitched together with hammers and nails and glue – and rests the back of his neck on the top rail – uncomfortably. “What about the night?”

The answer lashes back like a saw, stubborn and uneven: “The smog blocks the stars.” He doesn’t have to look at Shinji to hear the despondent depression in his tone, the regretful wistfulness, and all the emotional baggage that comes with it – the only baggage he’ll leave behind, will never pack.

“We could go.” His eyebrows crease even more, and if humans weren’t made up of little, fleeting moments such as this one, Kaworu would have been scared of permanent folds. “To somewhere with no smog, I mean.” Shinji’s eyes light up – _like the sky_ – and Kaworu knows that’s one of those moments he wishes he could photograph and keep, all to himself. Selfish. Only slightly.

The next second, the moment disappears, and if it weren’t for his superior memory Kaworu would have had trouble remembering it had ever happened in the first place. “There isn’t anywhere like that.”

“There could be,” Kaworu urges, because he wants to see that light again, wants to grab hold of it – it’s times like these when he remembers he’s at least half human. “What’s true of a part isn’t necessarily true of the whole.” The smog looms, ever present, providing the backdrop for Shinji’s small, wiry figure, framed by the edge of the window – and his greatest desire is to replace that edge of the window with the edge of the world, with the endless blue sky.

And because he’s at most half monster, and because _perhaps, perhaps that half isn’t my heart_ , he grabs Shinji’s hand – rough and calloused, scars signaling survival – tugs on it, gives a heartfelt smile, and finally lets go, leaving in the flash of a fleeting moment, like wind between fingertips, like sky under smog. His heart blooms when a second epiphany further brutalizes his wind-beaten sentiments – _Shinji trusts me to come back_. He will.

The airlock puffs and wheezes when he slips by. He’s surrounded by the old – by the bike he takes by the handles, dusty but not rusted, which croaked under pressure and could almost fall apart with a touch – and breathes it in, all sand and no saltwater. The ground is cracked, and the tire tracks are only alive for a short while. There is consistency to be had, and it covers up the needless additions tirelessly.

Mountain summits border the gray above them – red rocks, red eyes, white smog, white skin. Dye the globe two colors, and people will drown. His left hand detracts itself from the bike handle, and as it reaches over to touch his right forearm he glances down. The paint hasn’t chipped. At everyone’s expense, he is still alive.

The edge of the world stretches out before him, but there are no stars to be found.


End file.
